Enjolras
by kamelion
Summary: There are those who oppose what the Society stands for. Enjolras finds he is not only the leader of a small faction but a pawn in a larger, deadly game. Reviews and constructive crits welcome.
1. Chapter 1

A few notes: This is my first Les Miz fiction. I've been a fan - forever - but I've never tried writing a story based on it. So bear with me! If anyone wishes to beta, please message me. I'm flying solo here! As such, all mistakes are mine.

I'd also like to point out that, although I know Enjolras is blond (LOL) to my mind he's very much a brunette due to countless on stage portrayals. Michael Maguire will always be "my" Enjolras, but he isn't who prompted this story. It was the wonderful Ramin Karimloo in the 25th anniversary who prompted this one, and who is in fact my model. Why? Never mind that amazing voice, my god if he and Michael sang together it would be the end of me. What prompted this was Ramin stepping back and making the sign of the cross and praying during "One Day More". Enjolras suddenly became real to me in a way that he never had before. That doesn't make him easy to write, however!

Enjolras was always my favorite male character in the book (Eponine being my other favorite and no, I don't ship them though as a kid I thought it was cool that my favorite characters both began with an "E") but the way he was written drove me a little nuts. He was so idealistic, so single minded, and so...young and stupid. LOL!

This story is my answer to all that, with a helping of pure fancy and "because I can" thrown in. Hope you enjoy! - Kam

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The room was crowded and loud, distracting, everything a grand meeting of the minds should be; the energy so palpable as to crackle in the air, the tension relieving itself through words of haste and vigor. Heated discussions barreled from one passionate body to the next, the sentences sealing themselves into the walls. It was a wonder the room didn't sway from the pressure, and indeed Combeferre supposed their mission was what caused the cracks in the walls and the scratches on the table, as though the room was desperately trying to withstand the assault through stubbornness tempered by idle curiosity of what was to become of the impassioned men.

As he picked at one of the scratches on the rough, wooden table his eyes settled on the stationary object across the room who was taking in the organized chaos with his usual calm. Enjolras stood on the perimeter, his arms folded across his chest, his hair more disheveled than he usually allowed. He did not appear fatigued, only contemplative. At six feet he was taller than most in the room, though not the tallest. His posture demonstrated the control he felt over himself. His stern visage took in the activity, and Combeferre knew him well enough to search for the wry smile hidden within his depths. It wasn't visible on his face, but more in the subtle glint of his eyes. Enjolras was pleased.

Combeferre's brows quirked in response and he disguised his own smile, his attention returning to worrying at the splinter he was determined to extract from the table top. He was exhausted of planning. Better to let the others sort out their differences. It wouldn't matter in the end; what Enjolras said was God's own gospel. But he knew Enjolras listened, as any good leader did, to the opinions and crass jokes which filtered through the more serious discussion of the upcoming days, gauging the mood of each individual man. Enjolras was forever evaluating the situation before him. Combeferre was content to allow it. It was nothing for him to pick at the table and let the leader do his work.

The men were relaxing in their own ways, and he himself was tempted to retire to his room. There would be no speeches, not tonight. Jehan tossed the occasional glance in his direction several times, and after reading the man's demeanor he gave a quick shake of his head. No, no speeches. The men were free to leave at their will. It was late. Shoulders were slumping and Enjolras noticed. Some nights he would keep them, bolster their spirits, pour energy into them. This wasn't one of those nights. The energy was there and allowed to run its course.

Grantaire appeared seemingly from nowhere and sat heavily across from Combeferre, squinting with an expression of near disgust which Combeferre could not understand. He opened his mouth, but Grantaire spoke first. "How do you do it?"

Combeferre frown his puzzlement.

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder at Enjolras, and turned back to the man seated across from him. "I am a witness. You talk with your eyes. Both of you." Grantaire's own gaze was slightly unfocused.

"We know each other. It is only normal to learn to read someone through their actions."

Grantaire clenched his fist. His lips pressed together as though to force a idea from his head to his throat through his liquor haze. "That is the thing, is it not? How can anyone know what that man thinks, indeed, if he even has thoughts which are not held exclusive to the cause of _liberty_, and his 'free citizens of the world'". He leaned back, his head wobbling slightly, and picked at the table in the same manner as Combeferre. "It makes me envious that you can read him so," he continued. "I would that he'd talk to me on occasion without resorting to slander."

"Slander?"

"He seems to think I imbibe more than can be healthy for me."

Combeferre laughed.

"I do not jest!" Grantaire stood, his chair scraping back, which was a common occurrence when this group of men joined together but which always seemed to silence a room when it was Grantaire who did the standing. The room quieted, and Grantaire looked around.

"Every one of you has his vice, and are free to engage in said vice. Is that not freedom? I can sit and drink until my eyeballs are full and vestiges of liquor pool from my very pores! There is neither man nor beast which can stop me from engaging in my pleasure. With drink I have no worry, I have none of the fears which plague all of you on a daily basis!" He swiped his hand at the room. "You cry out for revolution, for freedom. I have it! I am content! What is freedom, then, but to be content?" He eyed each man as he fell silent.

No one answered, in fact the men seemed more engaged in his short speech than usual. For one, it was odd indeed for Grantaire to give a short speech. Many a time his talks would rival the impassioned ravings of Enjolras. But now Grantaire seemed angry, and his glare was aimed at the motionless man he so admired- which was the second thing to draw the attention of the friends.

It was no secret that Grantaire worshipped the ground over which Enjolras soared. "Apollo" he called him. Adonis. On occasion he managed to sneak in a "your highness" which earned him a cuff on the ear and an expression which suggested maybe Grantaire had taken his jest too far. But the admiration was true, and it wasn't because he had designs on being like Enjolras. He was desperate for the ideals which Enjolras upheld simply by existing. The man was a physical manifestation of every emotional and spiritual desire Grantaire had ever felt in his life, and everyone knew it. It was evident in their discussions, their arguments, their banter. It was in the very look that Grantaire would give him when he spoke. It wasn't one of love, although Grantaire did love Enjolras. It was the expression of one who so desperately wanted to believe what he was told, yet was afraid to let himself go so far.

The fact that he envied Combeferre's friendship with Enjolras was apparent, and understood by all. It was painful to witness, because no matter how hard Grantaire claimed to try, Enjolras never saw past the bottle in Grantaire's hand, and with good reason.

Combeferre knew better. He had seen Enjolras glance at the young man when his head was down on the table. It wasn't disdain which crossed his face, but mild concern, and yes, annoyance. It was obvious Enjolras saw something much more in Grantaire than Grantaire himself saw, or indeed anyone else. Combeferre could not see it until Enjolras started pointing out the brilliant behaviors disguised as apathy. It was little wonder Enjolras stayed frustrated with Grantaire, but the poor drunken man had no clue of this. It certainly wasn't obvious in the words Enjolras gave him.

Grantaire held no bottle now, but he clearly suffered the effects of one - or three. It was another thing to expect from him; the later the day, the more bottles sway. Grantaire was usually a happy drunk.

But now, his eyes were dark. He walked to Enjolras, each step steady from daily practice of living in a constantly tilting world.

Enjolras watched him, his arms still crossed, his expression unchanged. Grantaire was nearly his own height, allowing the two men to regard each other eye to eye. Combeferre was slowly approaching the two men, more out of curiosity than out of a response to a threat. Grantaire would never threaten Enjolras. But each man felt such a dedication to their leader that it sometimes showed itself as protectiveness. The fact that two others of their party also stepped closer did not escape the attention of Combeferre.

Grantaire seemed to have run out of things to say, which again, was unusual. He watched Enjolras, and Enjolras watched him. Both waiting. The men around them also waited.

Grantaire finally spoke, his words soft but carrying far. "Do you really wish to die, Enjolras? Because I do not wish that for you. I've seen death. It sounds noble. You could do so much more for these people than to throw your body onto a barricade which will crumble beneath your feet. I've no interest in assisting your suicide."

Enjolras continued to watch him, taking in his words.

Grantaire's lips pressed together in anger, and he raised a finger, pointing it to Enjolras' face, only for the marble man to finally move, grabbing at the hand with startling speed, and squeezing it tightly.

"My reasons are my own," Enjolras responded in a low voice. "I need not explain them to you. If I must man the barricade alone I will do just that. If it takes one man to stand tall and to be shot down, if that is the example the people need, then that is the example they will receive."

"You are an idiot," Grantaire muttered, snatching his hand away. "Look at us. Do you honestly think what we do will matter?"

"It will send a signal."

"Yes, it will! Clean up day! Time to rid the streets of foul litter! Ah," Grantaire waved him down. "Why do I speak? I waste my time here."

"That is the first sensible thing you have said," Enjolras answered quickly. "And yet you accuse me of wasting mine. Did you not say that we must engage in our vice? Yours is the bottle. Mine, the republic. The citizens. My vice, is to ensure that they have the freedom to pursue theirs. Open your eyes, Grantaire! What you see in the streets every day is but a fraction of the degradation and squalor which permeates this great city. What point is there to have the privileged few if we can not use our privilege for the greater good?"

"What point is there if you are dead?" Grantaire countered starkly. "And do not dare try to answer with poetry. You use your death as a shining example to all men! But you'll not die a martyr, Enjolras. Women will weep for a day, your mother will weep for a week, and your body will rot with the others."

He backed away, his eyes taking in the quiet, accusing glances, and the more concerned ones. "It is a good thing you make death sound so grand, Enjolras," he concluded. And he took his nearly empty bottle, and left the back room of the café.

Combeferre let out the breath he had been holding. The men slowly resumed their activities, though with a subdued air.

Enjolras remained standing. He was upset. It was something the men were trying to ignore.

Jehan joined Combeferre as he reached Enjolras' side. "Provisions are ready," he said in a low voice. "I'll retire if nothing else is needed tonight."

"Nothing is required, thank you, Jehan." Combeferre shook his hand warmly. Enjolras gave him a grateful clap on the shoulder, and Jehan took his leave.

"Do you think he is going after Grantaire?" Combeferre asked.

"I honestly can not decide if that man needs looking after, or if he is better off on his own recognizance," Enjolras muttered. "If Jehan wishes to take on the monumental task of looking out for him, I wish him the best of luck." He shook his head ruefully and rested his knuckles on the table before him.

"I thought you did not believe in luck," Combeferre teased.

"I believe the situation demands it," Enjolras responded dryly.

Several others were following Jehan through the door as the room slowly emptied. Tasks for the morrow had already been laid before them. The men knew their duties.

Courfeyrac entered, then closed the door behind the last few departing men.

"Where have you been this evening?" Enjolras asked sternly. Combeferre was not certain if Enjolras was truly upset at Courfeyrac, or if he was still suffering from the emotion Grantaire had hurled at him.

Courfeyrac was nearly as used the leader's moods as Combeferre, and waved him down. He scraped out a chair and sat, catching his breath.

"Good God, man, did you run here?" Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac nodded. "I was distracted by a man I thought I recognized when earlier I arrived. He was watching me from across the street. I thought it best to move on and not bring him here, even though our gathering this evening was innocent. I wanted no risk of nefarious conversation crossing his ears."

"A wise decision," Enjolras complimented. "Who was this man?"

"I know not. Only that I've seen him talking with the police several times. He may consort with them on official business, or unofficial, depending on your view. Regardless, it seems he knows to watch these doors." He yanked his cravat from his neck. "And now the police will know to watch as well."

Enjolras sighed, and rapped his knuckles on the table in thought. "We could change our meeting place, but it may raise suspicion were we to suddenly vacate these premises. How many officials have you seen while out today?"

"About the same number. But they are very attentive to the goings on in the street."

"They know something. They've seen us talk, that is obvious. But they must sense something more. Surely no one here has spoken of our further plans?"

"I would not know, Enjolras." Courfeyrac wiped his face and snapped the cravat in the air. "Alas, I do not frequent the households of every man who comes through those doors."

"Of course not." Enjolras sighed and turned to sit on the table top. He clasped his hands in his lap, his fingers worrying at each other, his ever-working mind evaluating the situation. "We will continue to call to the people, but perhaps with less frequency." He pounded a fist into his upturned hand. "Confound it! Now is not the time for suspicion. The people are starting to listen."

"Then it sounds like the perfect time for suspicion," Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras looked at him over his shoulder. He considered, then gave a light chuckle. "Of course. You are right. We continue tomorrow as stated, it is too late to change those plans. But make certain everyone is careful, and aware. We cannot have men jailed before we've begun."

Combeferre nodded in agreement.

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The people were gathered, some with papers in their hands, others standing with arms folded across their chests in defiance, not ready to hear what was being said. Enjolras glanced around the corner of the building, taking in the increasing number, then resumed his pacing as he rehearsed his speech in his head. He never bothered to write anything down. He had a gift for oration. He knew words wouldn't fail him, not when speaking of something in which he believed with the whole of his being. For him, the energy of the crowd was his passion. Their upturned faces and bright eyes at his words were the caress of a lover. This was why he was put on the earth. To speak. To be a soul of the Republic. This was his purpose. And if he had to die for it, he would, willingly.

He wasn't sure about the others. He had to convince them that the cause was worth it. But the truth was, he didn't want to see men die. The previous night's sleep had been filled with images of stiff bodies along a mile high barricade, thanks to the ravings of Grantaire. And he knew, deep inside his chest, that Grantaire was probably correct. It tore at him.

Enjolras shook his head in brief amusement. Woe be the day he would admit Grantaire just might be the voice of reason!

He scratched the back of his neck, pacing more quickly as the time approached. A man bumped into his arm, apologized, and took his place near the makeshift podium, which had been hastily erected ten minutes earlier as Marius and Feuilly handed out information. They were well hidden now. Enjolras had thought it best not to have everyone in the open, in case certain eyes were to notice. It was another thought which disrupted his sleep the previous night. He knew they would attract attention. Caution was the order of the day.

Most of his friends were present. His eyes rose to see Combeferre watching from the room above. Reassured that his friend was near, Enjolras gave a nod, feeling perhaps not quite so nervous.

Nervous? He was never nervous. He voiced his thoughts as fluidly as water flowed downstream. Damn Grantaire and his words! He cursed lightly under his breath and clenched his fist. No doubts. Not now. It was time. He mounted the stack of crates and boxes to the small platform, feeling it shift beneath his feet. He paused for a mere fraction of a second, testing the stability. No sudden movements today, he told himself. Reign in the enthusiasm. They would have to work on their platform design.

The people grew silent as Enjolras stood before them, taking them all in, letting his presence fill the air. Once the eyes were no longer curious, but expectant, he began.

"Citizens. Look at yourselves." He waited until the men and women turned and glanced at each other uncomfortably. "Is this France?"

The crowd was instantly confused, and looked at each other once more before turning to Enjolras for the answer.

"The answer you seek is, yes. Yes, this is France." He pointed to a man in a tattered coat. "You, sir, what is your trade?"

He looked startled, but answered clearly, "Shoe repair."

"How many shoes in a week?"

"This week? Just five."

"Extensive repairs?"

"Extensive enough. Damn near rebuilt three pair."

"And who benefits from your labor?"

The man gave a lopsided smile. "I've heard you speak before. I believe you like to call them the 'upper crust'."

Enjolras smiled at the people's chuckles. "You have indeed heard me before, though I won't swear to using that particular phrase. Welcome back, brother. Are you paid well for your services?"

The man spat for an answer.

"And has your trade suffered?"

"They'd rather purchase new shoes. Not local, either! Some fancy new thing from Spain. Spain, I tell you!" He looked ready to launch into his own tirade, but Enjolras raised his hands.

"Citizens, you are the backbone of society. Every one of you. And yet you can not make a living this way! How many are forced to resort to illicit means to feed your children at home? No, do not answer," he said to several guilty faces in the back, "I do not stand here to accuse, but to say I understand."

"You're an upper crust!" a different voice yelled out from the center of the crowd. Enjolras squinted into the mass and watched a large, burly man push through the bodies. "You say you understand us, you know nothing! I know who you are!" A forefinger thick as a sausage jabbed toward him. "You're a student at the university."

"I am," Enjolras answered truthfully.

The man planted himself at Enjolras' feet. "You claim to understand our plight! Look at you! Look at your clothes! Fine linens, nice jacket. What the 'ell do you know?"

Enjolras immediately shrugged off his jacket and tossed it into the crowd. "What I have, I give freely," he said. "It is true I have had fortunate circumstances. Those circumstances I have shunned in the name of the people. Come, citizens! M Lemarque has done what he can, it is time for the people to speak! You must make your voices heard! You must take a day to shut down your wares and march in the street as one voice! One voice who says, this is enough! This shall end! I will no longer be trod upon, forced into slavery! For that is what is happening, my friends! You slave away, your families grow ill, there is no money for medicine, and no jobs to be had!"

"What do you know of it!" The angry man again shoved a finger toward Enjolras. "Look at you! You are nothing more than a _Boheme_. You stand up there lording over us, and when you are finished you'll return to your books and your wine and talk about how you'll 'improve the world'" he spoke in a high whiny voice, "while the rest of us lay dying on the pavement at your feet. How many people have you helped by standing there, earning their attention? Go to the stage for your performance, boy, and leave the citizens be!"

"I can not," Enjolras said quietly, yet his voice carried over the crowd like a whip. "You wound me, sir, with your lack of faith. What I wish, I can not do alone. That is why I stand here, speaking, nay entreating!" He knelt down, his hand held out. "I need men like you. You are passionate, you know where you stand, you are able-bodied and strong. You voice will be heard. It has already been heard here! Why not turn it to the cause at hand? Work with me, not against me, and together we will fight for this great country and truly make it a land for the free!"

The man sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Then he raged, reaching up to grab Enjolras by the shoulders, and, pouncing like a tiger, threw the younger man backwards.

Enjolras wasn't expecting the attack. The man was nimble, no doubt of that. He landed hard on his back, his breath driven from his ribs. He knew well how to fight, but as he tried to push the man away he realized was outweighed, and the platform was buckling from the people's response as they shoved forward.

Warning shots from the hidden police pierced the air, causing mayhem. Damn! Enjolras heard his name called out several times, the voices frantic. He saw faces start to appear over the shoulders of the man holding him down, all of them wide-eyed, yelling, tugging, then falling backward. Underneath him the wood cracked, splintered, and gave way.

Combeferre tumbled down the stairs in his haste to get to the street. He had been watching his friend from directly above, clutching the peeling window seal in desperation as Enjolras was confronted by the big man. He saw his friend kneel, thought for a moment his speech had soothed the savage beast, only to find him disappear beneath the bear of a body. He had launched himself from the window at that point, and could hear the panic and commotion echo loudly in the stairwell.

He burst from the door and shoved people aside, calling out his friend's name, fighting the hoard who seemed to both be running toward and away from the scene. Courfeyrac was there, flinging boards left and right. Marius was pressed against the building, and Combeferre heard him cry out, "Here!" as he dove down and shifted more wood.

Combeferre didn't care what he trod upon. With a savage yell he forced his way to the clutter, his hands grabbing crates, throwing them behind him, taking no notice of who may be in the way. He could just see the burly man, moaning, his head bleeding, and Enjolras lay half beneath him, stunned, visibly trying to get his bearing, one hand freed and pushing upward uselessly at the debris.

Thank god!

Grantaire appeared beside him and together they freed the large man from beneath several crates before, with the aid of Marius, bodily heaving him aside and shoving him away. Combeferre knelt beside Enjolras, eyeing him quickly while noting another threat to him, this time another man, smaller than the first, raising a metal bar high above his head, ready to strike down.

Grantaire tackled him backward with a yell.

Combeferre cleared more debris and pulled Enjolras to his feet, clutching his hand and his arm, steadying him as his friend quickly regained his bearings. He noticed Grantaire's struggle and reached out. "The fool will kill himself," he gasped.

Combeferre held him back. "Let him be. No, Enjolras! You're not safe here. You've become a target, we must go!"

Enjolras turned to him, startled. He looked back at Grantaire, who was aiming a fine punch and yelling, "Go, be on with you!" before laying the man out.

Marius tugged at Enjolras' other arm. "We must leave, now!" Neither man gave him time to argue as they pulled him from the wreckage, with some assistance from well-meaning citizens. More angry cries were heard, and it occurred to Combeferre that while Enjolras had been organizing a coup with the best of intentions, there were in fact adverse opinions. And those opinions were just as determined to be voiced.

A bottle crashed against the brick wall over their heads. The three men ducked, then took to their heels down a back alley. They darted around a corner, sliding on damp cobblestones, and planted themselves against a grimy wall.

"Do they give chase?" Enjolras asked quickly, panting, swiping angrily at a line of blood streaming toward his eye.

Marius glanced around the corner, his only answer being long arms propelling the other two men forward. But there was no where to run, as four more men blocked their paths.

"Go, go!" Enjolras insisted, shoving at the backs of his friends but there was no way Combeferre was leaving him. He planted his feet and waited.

"Ah, our revolutionaries!" A tall man, whose white hair belied his more youthful appearance, was thumping a nightstick into his palm. "Do you suppose they fight as well as they read?" And he charged.

There was no longer any doubt that Enjolras was their target as two men grabbed him instantly, the white-haired one smashing the club against his knees, eliciting a rare cry from the leader as he collapsed.

Combeferre was striking anything near him, and striking hard. He heard an enraged yell from Marius, heard more yells from behind, and even more yells farther back. Once again, the mob had come to them. He could see nothing but flailing arms and yelling faces, flashes of teeth, and limbs becoming so entangled he no longer knew who belonged to what.

It only took one blow to his head to silence him.

to be cont...


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for the reviews! I hope the story lives up to your expectations. :) As always, mistakes are mine and I don't doubt there are a few. I'm trying to catch them. Let me just say, for the record, that trying to spell these names correctly is HARD! LOL! -Kam ;)

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Two very loud, rather desperate voices floated in the darkness, pulling at him as though from another realm. It was peaceful in the dark.

The voices, on the other hand, were damned irritating.

"Combeferre! Wake up! Oh, for God's sake, let me go!"

"What are you doing to him?"

"I said, let me go!"

"You've just hit the man, is he not already down?"

Combeferre did feel a sting along his cheekbone, and the dialogue above him served to define its source. He moaned, "Grantaire, you would kick a dog in its sleep," and tried to force one eye to open. He managed, and encouraged the other to follow suit, only to wish he had kept both closed.

He saw Grantaire leaning over him, his face distorted by Combeferre's cloudy vision. Grantaire was glaring at him, and his lifted hand was held fast by Marius. "It is about time, you idiot! Why did you have to be struck down? You, the medical student. I could have used your advice, I know nothing other than to use alcohol to cleanse the wound."

Combeferre blinked his friend into focus, wincing slightly against the pain in his head. "And did you?"

"I was sorely wounded, indeed." The man smirked. Marius flung his hand down in disgust and walked away from him.

"Cretin." Combeferre slowly sat up, bracing his head with his hand. "God. Where am I?" He winced at the spinning room, feeling himself tilt to the side.

"Whoa, my friend!" Grantaire bent before him and supported his weight. "If you can not recognize your own walls, you are worse off than we thought."

Combeferre waved him off in irritation. He continued to blink, noticing that Grantaire, despite his sarcasm, was not leaving his side should he pass out. And for several moments Combeferre entertained the idea of doing just that, but something was bothering him. He passes his hand over his eyes, sighing, and squinted toward the window. "Marius?"

"Yes?" Marius turned from the window. Combeferre noticed a white bandage wrapped tight around his friend's hand, and waved him over.

"It is tended," Marius said, rather stiffly.

Combeferre wavered. "You are certain?"

"Well enough."

"Just as well, I'm not convinced I could focus on it." He swung his feet over the side of the bed and pressed the heels of his hands to his closed eyes, pleading inwardly for his headache to subside. He ignored the tilt of his stomach. "How long have I been here?"

"An hour, more or less," Grantaire said, his hands hovering.

A stiffness in his voice made Combeferre glance up. Grantaire looked pensive. Marius was chewing at his thumbnail, his gaze fixed through the paned glass.

"What is the matter?" He looked at each man in turn, realizing someone was missing. "Wait - where is Enjolras?"

"We do not know," Marius admitted after a moment.

Combeferre's eyebrows rose, making his head ache even more. "Pardon?"

Grantaire fisted his hair. "Dammit, the people, they were everywhere!" he said quickly, finally allowing his nervousness to surface. "Enjolras was gone. We do not yet know if he was taken - or arrested - and you were injured. We brought you back."

Combeferre took a moment, not wanting to accept the possibility of Enjolras being arrested. "No one has been to the city jail?"

"It has only been an hour, or three quarters of, since we brought you here," Marius said. "No one has yet seen him."

"Is that why you keep looking out of my window?"

Marius merely pressed his lips together and turned away.

Combeferre knew there was no love lost between Enjolras and Marius. It wasn't that they disliked each other, but were on opposite ends of the pole. Marius had visited the friends in the café more out of the need for companionship than any desire to become involved in events. The fact that he had struck out that day to assist them initially puzzled Combferre, but he never had a chance to place his query. Nor was that time now. Now, he was very concerned for his dearest friend. "Was he injured? Do we know that, at least?"

"I know only what you do," Marius answered.

Combeferre tried to remember. He knew his friend had been held, that he had cried out and the sound had terrified him. Then there were just bodies.

"We must find him," Grantaire said, needlessly.

"I'm surprised you are here and not in the street searching." Combeferre stood slowly, and tested his balance. His head throbbed from where he had been hit, but he could discover no serious injury. His vision was now fine, and he did not sway from vertigo. He would move slowly, then, to see about his friend. His friend - good God, Enjolras was missing? It wasn't possible! "We must convene. Gather who you can and bring them here to me. We dare not go to the café."

"They are nearby. It will take but just a moment," Grantaire said, and was through the door before Combeferre could order him to stay cautious.

"He is worried," Marius said.

"As am I," Combeferre admitted.

"Perhaps Enjolras is hiding along the street."

"Were he in the street someone would know. And he is not one for hiding in shadow." Combeferre turned at the sound of many boots on the stairs. "Were they all waiting in the doorway?"

"Quite nearly," Marius said, with a slight smile on his face.

The Friends of the ABC, minus their astute leader, bustled into the small apartment and spread along the walls, only a few taking the three seats available to them.

Combeferre gestured to his bed, thus providing two more seats, and took himself to the window. "That urchin Gavroche is running for this building," he muttered to Marius. He impatiently waved an arm at him.

Courfeyrac hurried to the window, his hand resting on Combeferre's shoulder as he peered out. "He was sent to the city jail. He has news," Courfeyrac said quickly, giving Combeferre a slap on the shoulder which made him close his eyes briefly. "Bahorel, let him in!"

"It was just Enjolras," Bahorel was at that time saying to Feuilly. "I was not attacked where I spoke, and neither was Joly. Jehan saw nothing amiss." He opened the door at the frantic knock, and admitted the young and mighty Gavroche.

Gavroches was flushed, his cap askew, his small eyes bright in his head. He doubled over as he spoke, his word tumbling out. "I've seen him, he's in the jail!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "He got himself arrested!" He looked around the room. "Listen, I know people! I can get him out, it isn't a problem! He'll have to be snuck out, of course, but he'll be. . ."

"Easy, Gavroche!" Courfeyrac rubbed Gavroche's cap onto his head. "Has he a window?"

"He has. I spoke to him through it."

"Then return to him," Combeferre replied quickly. "Tell him Maruis is on his way. He can get in to see him, the man can talk a cat from its dinner. Then get yourself clear. Oh, Gavroche…" Combeferre hesitated, "is he badly injured?"

Gavorche seemed suddenly embarrassed. "A bit, yeah. Depends on what you think is bad."

"Then tell him both Marius and myself will be in to see him. He is alone in his cell?"

"Yeah. I don't think there's anyone near him, neither. Heard someone but he sounded distant, couldn't make out his words. Enjolras wouldn't let me stay with him."

"Of course not. Go then, pass on my message." Combeferre turned to his friends as the young boy ran out, and Bahorel closed the door behind him. "You gentlemen are free to either remain here or to return to your own dwellings. But I hope to bring back news quickly."

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac leaned in to his friend, "are you well enough to go?"

"I am fine," Combeferre insisted, waving off further looks of concern. He was touched, to be honest, seeing the concern in their eyes. Anyone would be. But now wasn't the time for reassurance.

"Enjolras was attacked, wasn't he?" Feuilly asked. "Someone meant to hurt him. That wasn't just an angry crowd."

"Hurt him or scare him, yes."

"But why?" Feuilly looked genuinely confused.

"I would imagine it is because he has a political agenda!" Combeferre snapped. He rubbed his hand over his face and sent Feuilly an apologetic look. Feuilly nodded in understanding.

Grantaire's face was downcast. Combeferre felt certain he had never seen the man so depressed before, even when Enjolras was tearing into him for his idle behavior. But even then, it was attention from his idol. With his idol behind bars, he more than likely felt as though the sun would never rise again.

"We'll assume the charge is disturbance of the peace," Marius said as Combeferre quickly packed a small medical bag. "With any luck that warrants only a brief stay. There are too many vagrants about. It is possible they will release him within days."

"One can only hope. Come on." Combeferre fought past the nausea which climbed into his throat and made a hasty exit with Marius on his heels.

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Marius explained the reason for their visit to the guard. The man needed a lawyer, and medical attention! Surely he could not refuse! The guard could care less, it seemed, but waved them inside. Marius hesitated before the man, deliberately glancing him up and down, hoping to intimidate with his bold air. Only when he realized he'd been left behind did Marius hurry to match Combeferre's pace.

He rounded the corner into the tiny, dim corridor which was flanked with cells on either side. Two men were curled into their respective corners in their individual cells, both fast asleep. The cells further down appeared empty. Combeferre paused, then rushed to the lonely cell at the end, falling to his knees at the door. "Enjolras! It is I!"

There was a rustling motion, and a shadowy Enjolras rolled over on the tiny cot then quickly rose to his feet. Marius hung back. "Combeferre?" Enjolras asked, and stopped short, taking in his friend's appearance.

Combeferre waved it down. "I'll live. But are you injured?"

"Me?" He appeared genuinely perplexed. In two strides he was across the shadowed cell and grabbing the bars, craning his neck, trying to see towards the door. He aimed hot eyes at his friend. "Combefere, you must leave. Your association will only bring you more harm at this point. Leave me. Now!"

"Nonsense. I have permission to be here." Combeferre was making a face, and raised his arm to block his nostrils. "You could've have found a better place to meet up! What is that stench?"

"I believe…" Enjolras said no more, but tilted his head in the direction of one of the sleeping men.

"I pity you in more ways than one, then." Combeferre reached out and stopped Enjolras from pulling his hands back. He examined the busted knuckles. "It seems you put up a fight I did not see."

"Pfft." Enjolras snatched his hands away, rubbing at his injuries and turning his back to them.

Marius watched the quick exchange between the two friends with intense curiosity. It was the first time he had been nearly isolated with Enjolras, and to be truthful, it unnerved him. He was used to seeing him in a crowded room, or a more crowded street. Even if there were but a few friends in the café, Enjolras had a leaning towards remaining on the sides of the room so he could watch the action. While he was a formidable presence, there were times when it was possible to at least try and forget that he was in the room. But now he was mere feet away, and as far as he was concerned only his closest friend was with him. Marius was an intruder, but he could not tear himself away. His natural curiosity held him in check, and he watched the two men, feeling like a voyeur.

But Enjolras looked over his shoulder and noticed him, and met his eyes firmly before again facing the back wall. The visual contact felt like an electric shock, similar to watching a caged lion. Marius approached the bars, standing less than a foot away, allowing himself to completely take in the details of this man for the first time.

Enjolras was slightly taller, perhaps a few years older though he couldn't be sure, and his energetic eyes were vivid in the dim light. Marius realized he was holding his breath and wondered how many men it took to encase this mighty lion, who suddenly seemed too large for his cell. "What are the charges?" Enjolras asked him.

"That is to be ascertained," Marius said, "but I'm certain it will be disturbing the peace."

Enjolras waved his hand in irritation. "Of all things! I could be brought down for murdering a man, but I am here for inciting a scene which I, in fact, did NOT incite."

"You've murdered a man?" Marius frowned.

The leader's back was still turned to him. His head bowed down, and his shoulders shook in a chuckle. Enjolras peeked around, surprising Marius with the humor in his face. The vivid eyes suddenly held a sparkle. He hadn't thought his man capable of such! "Do you think me one who could kill a man?"

Marius spoke without thought. "I am afraid that if the situation came to it, you could."

"As could you. As could anyone, if the situation _came_ to it." He sighed in irritation, stepping fully for the first time into a single, narrow beam of light which streamed in from the small window above.

His shirt was torn over his breast. With the natural low cut in front it seemed to hang in two strips over his body. Dried blood streaked his forehead, and as Combeferre had noted before, his hands were barked and bruised from his struggle.

Combeferre set his bag on the filthy floor. "Come over here. Let me at least try to clean you up. Wish you could pull that beam of light along with you."

Enjolras grunted. "I refuse to disrobe, I'll catch my death in here," he muttered wryly, walking up to his friend. He slowly curled his fingers around one bar. It was a pathetic motion. It wasn't meant to be, but it caught the three men as such. Marius met the leader's eyes once more, and saw sadness.

He thinks he's let us down, Marius realized.

"Pass your hands through the bars," Combeferre commanded. "Next thing you know Grantaire will be through that door, and if he sees his Apollo in this state he may not survive the walk back out of here."

Enjolras rolled his eyes as he did so, and muttered underneath his breath a phrase that Combeferre smiled at, but one Marius could not hear, for he was backing away with the intention of finding out just what the charges were. It seemed these friends needed a moment.

His return found the two much as they were before, only both sitting on the floor on opposite sides of the bar. Enjolras was leaning back against the wall in his cell, wiping at the dried blood on his face with the cloth Combeferre had provided. His wounded hands were lightly bandaged. Combeferre leaned against the bars in a similar way, nearly mirroring his friend, but with his ear tilted to hear every low word Enjolras said. And Enjolras was talking, non-stop it seemed, his hands gesturing little but his ideas flowing out. He studied the cloth as he spoke.

Again, Marius didn't make his presence known. He stayed in the shadows, watching the intimate moment between the two friends, realizing he was witnessing a rare time when Enjolras had his guard down completely, when his deepest thoughts were being listened to by a friend. He couldn't hear the words being spoken, not clearly. It made no matter to him. To see him almost peaceful, rather than masterful, yet still possessing the power which made him so popular - and somewhat intimidating - to see him smile and laugh at Combeferre's responses, it was a pleasure which surprised him. And suddenly, Marius decided he did indeed like Enjolras. And he was willing to know the man better, to see more of this side of him.

He approached the two men, noting regretfully that their guard rose slightly in his presence. The smoothness of Enjolras' face was replaced with a wary tension, almost imperceptible except when seen against its previous counterpart. "It is as we thought," Marius said, noting with further regret that his voice had a sharp edge to it, no doubt his unintended response to their reaction at seeing him, "he will be in for two days, no more, barring any further incidents." His eyebrows rose meaningfully at Combeferre. "We must behave ourselves."

"Bah!" Enjolras exclaimed, to Combeferre's delight.

"I'm completely serious," Marius said with a smile. "No taking to the streets and inciting madness for two days, lest we wish our noble leader clapped in irons for life, or shot through the chest for treason."

"It is a wonder they chose to forgo that rationale, seeing the topic on which I was elucidating," Enjolras mused.

"God above! If you are going to start writing speeches in your head, I'm leaving," Combeferre threatened. "Even I know to retreat when you start in with the large words."

"As a philosopher and medical student, one would think you could match me word for word."

"I could! I could teach you several new words as well. But I am tired, and since you are not dying or a threat to have your head on the block, I'm taking my leave of you. One of us deserves a restful night, and I warrant it will not be you."

"You know me too well." Once more the reserve had slipped, but only briefly. Now that Marius knew what to look for, he would be waiting for this newer Enjolras to show himself, one that perhaps the other men had seen but not realized.

A commotion behind him made him spin, his hands raised for an attack. Combeferre had pushed to his feet, as had Enjolras, whom Combeferre signaled to back away into the shadows as though bars did not protect him.

Grantaire emerged, and stopped dead still when he saw Enjolras. Enjolras endured the stare with a hint of humor.

"What's the charge?" Grantiare asked Marius sidelong, his gaze not leaving the expressive eyes locked with his.

"Two day and he's a free man," Marius said deliberately.

"HA!" Grantaire threw his head back as he barked out a laugh. "The threat of being a free man is what landed him here in the first place!" His face filled with anger, and he marched to the bars. "The next time I say your idea is, in fact, a _bad_ idea, you listen to me!"

"We should go," Combeferre took Marius' arm, "before this becomes unpleasant."

"I agree," Marius said, and the two left quickly, both feeling amused and ignoring the sudden look of panic on their leader's face.

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Word spread quickly of the imprisonment, and Enjolras had a steady supply of visitors pass the tiny street-level window. The window was no easy feat to get to; smashed between two old, tilted buildings it sat in an alley way hardly fit for cats to run through. One hardly had room to squat, never mind kneel. Enjolras had managed to grab hold of the bars and pull himself up to see through, and was surprised to find if he stuck his hand outside, he could almost touch the opposing wall.

His bread and water was supplied, but left untouched. It was raining, and he had moved his pathetic cot as far from the window as possible. The water ran down the wall in rivulets, splattered against the brick. He sat on his cot, knees pulled to his chest, arms tucked close to his body. The air was chilled from the passing storm. The cell was damp. He stifled a cough and cleared his throat, trying to pull the remnants of his shirt closer around him. For the moment the rain kept his friends away, giving him time to think. For once, he did not welcome that opportunity.

The warden had brought in one visitor that day, a face he didn't think to see again. A man he'd never understood. A man who never understood him.

His father had looked at him through the bars, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light, his square jaw clenched, his dark hair glistening with rain. Enjolras remembered standing slowly, unable to believe his eyes, and suddenly felt so ashamed of his deeds. But he raised his chin and walked to the bars, meeting his father, a military man, face-to-face.

His father said nothing. He was nearly a head taller; a strong, imposing man with a powerful voice, one his mother used to say Enjolras inherited from him. To see the two, there was no doubt they were father and son.

It had puzzled Enjolras. His father was military. He believed in France. But he could not seem to accept his son's patriotism. Enjolras was supposed to be a lawyer. That was how he would serve. But it wasn't where his heart was, and he was hearing the same tired argument from all quarters, hell, even Grantaire was siding with his father without realizing it!

Enjolras had looked at his father. Just looked at him, not knowing his own eyes were pleading.

And his father had turned slowly, his eyes drifting in a deliberate line from Enjolras to the bars that divided them. He walked away, his boots thudding dully in the gloom.

No words were exchanged. Words had not been exchanged for a very long time. His father was merely letting Enjolras know that he was aware of the predicament. Just awareness, no advice, and certainly no words of consolation. Enjolras had silently watched him leave and leaned forward, resting his head on the cool bars where his father had been standing

Now, his cot was near the bars in that same spot. He could hear a whore further down the stifling corridor, railing and pining at the inhumanity which placed her there, yelling that she had presented her documentation., she was legal! He wondered, if under different circumstance would she have gone to school? Her shrill voice made her age impossible to place, but he assumed she was older than he. Most of the whores seemed to be. Was he truly throwing everything away by pursuing this cause? Would it matter? Would they still end up in these dank and damp cells, only for other reasons?

_No_, he told himself. _One day, everyone will have the chance that I've been given. It is worth the fight. For the people like her, who had no choice, it is worth the fight._

It was worth the distance between him and his father.

The chill cut deep through his body. He pulled himself inward and lay on his side, folding himself beneath the bitter, pitiful excuse for a blanket.

He closed his eyes, and listened to the rain.

to be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) And so we continue...**

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The Friends were not idle during this time. They had taken to the streets; challenging the other factions, questioning the citizens and rallying people to their cause. A few even used the attack on Enjolras as an example of the desperation of the people. And they heard responses from all quarters. The workers near the Rue de Charonne were all but speaking in code, and the authorities there were on their guard. Jehan had reported that they knew of Enjolras' imprisonment and it was seen as nothing more than an unfortunate fact.

This angered Jehan. "They care little, and say less," he complained to Courfeyrac that evening.

"They must keep their distance," Courfeyrac explained. "And while Enjolras is known to them, he is not a friend."

"He is important!"

"We are all important, Jehan! Do not for a moment think this movement will succeed without the hands of everyone involved, not just a chosen few!" He cocked his head at Jehan's dismay, and sighed in understanding. "You are allowing your personal feelings to get in your way. The most that Enjolras' arrest will do for them is to put them on their guard, and rightfully so."

"And where do we stand?" Jehan asked sullenly, and almost defensively.

"Have you seen him today?"

"I have."

"As have I. And Combeferre. And Feuilly. And Grantaire, several times. THAT is where we stand."

Jehan smiled, just a little, and nodded decisively. Both men turned as Combeferre entered the room. "Well?" Combeferre asked impatiently.

Courfeyrac shook his head. "We have Gavroche and his minions tucked into every corner of this city. No one has seen the man who attacked Enjolras."

"Gavroche? Why? He is recognizable."

"Perhaps," Courfeyrac smiled, "but he must be seen to be recognized. His stature works in his favor." His expression waned. "Combeferre, there is a movement afoot."

"The bourgeois is getting nervous?" Combeferre raised his eyebrows as he set his papers down on the table.

"It isn't the bourgeois." Courfeyrac ran his hand through his hair and glanced at Jehan. "Someone is trying to take down the Society."

"Someone is always trying to take down the Society," Combeferre scoffed, but Courfeyrac squeezed his shoulder.

"Lamarque is gravely ill," he said. 'You've heard Enjolras. He is the last sympathizer to the people. He isn't expected to survive more than a week at best. What happens then?"

"The Society is already making plans," Jehan added. "Enjolras was in on those plans. They may change them now, considering. And if they do I fear Enjolras will not be notified."

"Unless he's had a visit in the jail, which is possible," Courfeyrac said. "I refuse to believe they would abandon him that easily. The whole of this side of Paris is counting on his tactics."

"But it remains," Jehan added, "that our time is short, and the Society is on the move, as are many other factions. Not all approve of the circumstances, or our means of obtaining our objective and they've made that abundantly clear with their attack."

Combeferre leaned against the wall. "So you're saying whoever these people are, they're preparing to counter us before we even attempt to join forces."

"It seems they will ensure we do NOT join forces," Courfeyrac said.

"Were any leaders of the other subsidiaries attacked?"

Courfeyrac shook his head. "Not to my knowledge. They know what happened here. But nothing more has been said."

"Then why Enjolras? Why not someone near Rue de Charonne? Strategically are they not more important?" Jehan did not like it.

"He is the best at what he does," Combeferre said with a shrug as Grantaire joined them. "Of anyone who speaks of rebellion, he is the one who stirs the hearts of even the coldest man. He is visible. He could easily become a rallying symbol. They fear him."

"They think he could be successful?" Grantaire joined in, glancing from one man to another.

"They know it."

Grantaire considered this. "He is released today, in a few hours time." He thought for a moment more, then smacked his hand down upon the table. "He must be re-arrested at once."

"Grantaire!"

"I could get drink into him. I've always wondered what Enjolras would be like were he under the influence. We could push him into an example of drunk and disorderly conduct and he would be right back into the cell."

Combeferre was appalled, but Courfeyrac laughed. "I would almost pay to see that, but no. He is needed."

"He is needed, alive, very much so!" Grantaire agreed.

"No one has threatened his life, Grantaire!" Jehan exclaimed.

"Were you there? Did you hear those men? They will be back for him. They are not in jail with him, they are free to do as they please. They ran when the police arrived." He looked sheepish. "We all did."

Combeferre raised his hand. "Never mind that. He has a point. This evening, when Enjolras is released, how do we know he will not be met at the door by this enemy?"

"Perhaps they were merely sending us a warning." Courfeyrac replied. "More than likely this was nothing more than an attempt at a show of strength. If they really wanted to make things happen. . ."

But Combeferre wasn't certain. He pushed from the wall and eyed the street through the window. "Our numbers are growing," he said softly. "Enjolras told me just last night that when Lamarque is gone, and there is little doubt now that this illness will soon take him, that will be our call to action." He gritted his teeth and turned to his friends. "When it happens, it will happen quickly."

"Enjolras is but one man," Grantaire said.

"Enjolras is the one man who is in communication with everyone who matters," Combeferre snapped. "Do not dare underestimate his role! He not only knows his own plan, he knows what is going on in the minds of all the men, of the Society itself. He is the…" Combeferre paused, feeling dread. "He is the single thread which holds this insurrection together. He is the one who will organize the downfall of anyone who stands in our way…and they know this."

His words surprised Courfeyrac. "I knew he was important. Is he really that involved in what is happening? All the way…"

"All the way to the upper most of the Society."

"He isn't safe," Grantaire reiterated. He pressed his lips tight together, turning a circle in irritation.

"None of us are safe, Grantiare," Combeferre chastised. His expression had changed. He tilted his head, watching Grantaire as he stood with his hands on his hips.

"What?" Grantaire asked, not liking the attention. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

Combeferre leaned in, and sniffed. He frowned, and sniffed once more. "That isn't right."

"What isn't right?"

"You no longer smell like a distillery."

Grantaire winced.

"Good lord," Courfeyrac leaned in, then smiled. "He's shelved the bottles!"

"Grantaire, is this true?" Jehan exclaimed, leaning in himself then stepping back in astonishment.

"Enjolras might need me," Grantaire said. "Do not laugh! Do you really think anything you've said hasn't already crossed my mind? I could not help him before he was arrested. I will not make that mistake again. Someone has to talk sense into him."

"I'm impressed," Combeferre admitted. "But you do realize stopping sudden will carry its own effects?"

"Do not remind me, my skin crawls at the thought of it. I was awake all night." Grantaire shuddered, rubbing his arms.

"Keep moving, it will help," Combeferre said, steering the men through the café door and out onto the street. "I can no longer stand that room," he explained. "It makes me angry that Enjolras is not in it."

"Quiet. Look!" Courfeyrac quickly pushed the three men back into the shadows as two policemen walked by. Following them were two men, well-dressed. One was the man who had attacked Enjolras.

"How is that for a stroke of luck?" Combeferre muttered, and patted Grantaire on his chest. "Quickly. You have a chance to prove yourself. Do not screw it up. Follow those men. Signal Gavroche as well, he's hiding behind that buggy as though I can't see him. Meet me at my place with the news. Quickly now, the sun sets!"

"And Enjolras?"

Combeferre gave a small shrug. "With any luck he should be there to hear the news himself."

Grantaire pulled himself up to his full height, saluted, and shuffled after the men.

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Enjolras heard keys rattle in the lock. He slowly turned his head, then rolled over on the cot.

Hands clamped over his eyes and mouth. He instantly kicked out, heard a curse, felt a weight press down on top of him. His arms were jerked outwards and held. The hand covering his nose was replaced with a foul-smelling cloth.

He'd had no time to speak.

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Grantaire followed the men and watched carefully from under his brow. Concentrate, he chided himself. His hands were trembling. He would take them from his pockets, rub them together, stick them back. The air was warm, but he shivered. He paused as the men did, turning his face from them to look at a window, or appear to see someone across the street. They never looked over their shoulders.

But to be safe, Grantaire managed to assume several disguises on his walk. The neckerchief was dropped. His hat was swapped for another as he bumped into a young man. His vest was one minute open, then buttoned, then discarded, all enough to keep any one glance from taking in too much detail. He was discouraged to see them hail a driver, the horses clopping their way to the curb.

Oh, do not make me run, Grantaire pleaded silently, and groaned as he took to his feet behind the carriage.

He jostled people out of the way, frantically trying to keep pace, cursing his pounding head and tumultuous stomach. "This was not the plan!" he exclaimed loudly, and flagged for a carriage to follow. He climbed in, merely pointing to the carriage in front of them before doubling over and retching.

He did not sit up until the carriage slowed. Grantaire leaned out and saw the carriage before them had slowed as well. He quickly opened the door and jumped out, ignoring the angry cry of the gypped driver. A sous was casually tossed toward him, and Grantaire dove into the clothing shop until the carriage passed on. He peeked out, and saw his prey further down the street. They were on the outskirts of the city.

Grantaire followed, then flattened himself against a building as they turned toward a second carriage. He leaned forward, and the sight before him nearly caused him to become ill once more. He fell to one knee.

The carriage had stopped before a large building. The front door opened, casting light onto the grimy street, and several men greeted the driver. Enjolras was being hauled out, immobile as one held him beneath his arms and another took his ankles. He was carried inside the building. The door closed loudly.

He should go in. He should take those men down and…he was one man, what the hell was he thinking? He should go in and rescue Enjolras from the inside. Enjolras had brains on him, he could get them out. But no one would know where there were, should the situation arise where Enjolras' brains were not intact, and seeing the state he was in…so he was back to crashing in the doors, but he was one man…

He was also a fool. Grantaire swallowed heavily and pushed against the wall, heaving himself to his feet, his eyes glued to the door. It was all well and good for heroes, he chided himself, and he was no hero.

He spent every ounce of energy he had running back to town, calling for any carriage within distance.

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Courfeyrac and Combeferre were waiting impatiently outside the jail. It was some time before their admittance was allowed, and it was too late. "What do you mean, he's gone?" Courfeyrac demanded.

The warden leaned over his desk, folding his arms on the scarred top. "I mean, he is no longer on the premises, monsieur," he replied smartly. "His bail was met."

"He was due to be released regardless!"

"I was told he was to be held longer, but," the warden shrugged.

"I see. I hope you enjoy the pretty amount your insolence costs him!" Courfeyrac gritted his teeth but Combeferre took him by the shoulder and steered him from the small room.

"If he isn't here, he isn't here," he said. "They can give us no more information than that."

"They did not release him. Someone bailed him."

"Someone paid for that man's silence," Combeferre corrected. He cursed loudly and gave Courfeyrac a quick shove. "Get the others. We meet in the café."

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The voices of the men were so raised that Grantiare's explosion into the room was unnoticed. "There you all are!" he yelled out.

Combeferre turned, and suddenly wondered how he was going to tell this follower of his god's disappearance. He needn't have worried.

"They have him," Grantaire exclaimed, falling against a table then into a chair. The room fell silent at his words.

"Who?" Feuilly asked.

"The man who decided he didn't like our leader's tone, I suppose" Grantaire replied curtly. "They've carried him into one of those abandoned buildings outside of town. Quite literally."

"You've seen him! Did you go in?" Jehan asked quickly.

Grantaire straightened. "Yes, Jehan, I followed the eight large men into a dark building with no support behind me whatsoever." He gave the young man a disgusted sidelong glance. "There are many men. What they want of him, I know not. He was not conscious, but appeared no more injured than before." The room erupted in clamor and questions, with everyone crowding around Grantaire.

"Ransom?" Courfeyrac leaned in to Combeferre turning him from the group so they could speak privately. "They could plead to his father."

"For what? What good would money be to them?" Combeferre responded in a low voice as Grantaire continued to rail to all who would listen. "No, this is a warning against our means. With Enjolras gone, communication will break down. Think of the timing!"

"If they keep him…"

"If they have him after Lamarque dies, our cause is lost. When Lamarque is silenced, the people's voice must be heard. But without Enjolras…"

"There are too many! Keeping Enjolras will not affect…"

"Keeping Enjolras will indeed affect things on this side of the city," Combeferre said. "It is enough. Someone must stand in his place, for now. We can not let this momentum slide." Combferre glanced around the room.

"None here have the wits which Enjolras possesses," Courfeyrac scoffed.

"Then we take another tactic. Jehan could do it."

"Jehan looks like a cherub."

"Jehan is just as capable of speaking with passion as anyone here. And his cherubic looks could be beneficial. Enjolras may speak as a tower of flame, but Jehan can appeal to their inner nature." Combeferre tapped a finger on the table. "We'll send him to the Society, and to the other insurgent groups. They'll have to trust him. In the meantime," Combeferre straightened and addressed the room, "we must rescue our esteemed leader."

A yell of agreement rose.

to be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

Enjolras winced and pushed to his elbows, his breath catching then releasing in pain. He lowered his head and gently reached to feel the knot on the back of his skull. Damn it to hell! With another wince he lowered his hand, bracing himself against the floor. What was all of this? He knew as a rebel he could expect to receive some kicks, but honestly he had not been expecting any sort of retaliation, other than the usual verbal sparring. His circumstances was bringing the reality of his purpose into sharp focus.

He coughed once and forced himself to an upright position, his eyes closed, sitting on his heels, his hands on his thighs, his chin lifting as he tried to stretch the cramp from his body. He slumped forward, then doubled over and cough again. His stomach pained him.

"You are awake, then?" a voice asked him.

He looked up quickly. The room came into view, not his cell, but no lighter than it had been. At least it was dry. A man was sitting in a chair opposite him. The man casually leaned back, his eyes not leaving the stony gaze which faced him.

"Who are you?" Enjolras asked sternly.

The man gestured with his hand. "A friend. IF you permit."

Enjolras winced at the throbbing in his head which was making itself known as he grew more aware. "Do you treat all of your friends as such?" he growled.

The man smiled and signaled. A young boy hurried over with a tin cup of water. His face was expressionless. He stretched his arm out, offering the cup to Enjolras.

Enjolras studied him from where he was kneeling, and slowly accepted the cup. He put his nose to it. Water. "Considering the state of affairs and the health of the city…"

"It is safe, I assure you." The man smiled.

Enjolras considered, then brought the cup to his lips, his eyes not leaving the man as he drank, not until he allowed them to close in bliss. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was.

"There." The man's face seemed set in a permanent grin.

Enjolras sighed in relief after draining the last drops, and passed the cup back to the boy, who hurried off into the shadow and through a side door. His keen eyes took in the dim room, noting there were two ways in and out, and that both were guarded. He wasn't bound, but he wasn't certain he was fit enough to try for an escape. "Why am I here?"

"I haven't answered your first question, and you hazard to ask another?"

"I'm not certain you will answer any of my questions," Enjolras replied with a wry tone.

"Then why waste your breath?"

Enjolras raised one eyebrow. "I'm told I am a stubborn man."

The man across from him laughed loudly, slapping his knee. Enjolras maintained his composure, though the sound made him tense inwardly.

"I expected as much," the man said. "You may call me Francois."

"That is not your true name."

"Of course not."

Enjolras pressed his lips into a thin line. "I do not appreciate being played, monsieur. Tell me why I am here."

The man's face hardened, and he leaned forward. "You have friends in high places."

Enjolras merely gestured impatiently.

It wasn't the best move to make. Enjolras found a very large man looming over him, from where he had appeared there was no way to know, and a crushing sting to his left cheekbone propelled him backwards. He landed hard and his breath flew from him. He made to sit up, but stopped as the barrel of a carbine was pressed to his chest.

"I can see this is not the time for conversation," Francois said evenly, and made to stand.

He couldn't let this man leave without pulling information from him. Enjolras set his teeth. "I apologize, monsieur," he forced out. His eyes locked with the man's who held his life at the end of the gun. The eyes regarded him evenly, without emotion. He's prepared himself for whatever might happen, Enjolras realized. He would pull the trigger without a second thought. He raised his head, and stared the man down.

"Corbert." Francois waved his hand, and the gunman pulled back.

Enjolras straightened slowly, his eyes fixed to Francois, feeling every ache in his body and trying not to show it.

"Your little resistance, while noble, is doomed to failure. You know this."

Enjolras did not move.

"Once Lemarque breathes his last, and it will happen any day now, this idea of yours will die with him. It is well enough. The city can hardly support what it has, never mind entertaining the," he chuckled, "_free will _of the people."

"It is not my idea alone. The people deserve a chance to…"

"Oh, the people deserve a chance," Francois scoffed. "With what resources, monsieur? You wish to clothe, to educate the population. Very ambitious. And the work force? These people do work, monsieur. They fulfill a very important part in society."

"The lowest part, you mean?"

Francois gestured. "Every city has its scourge." He stood, clasping his hands behind his back, and regarded Enjolras. "What you suggest requires funding. Where do you propose these funds come from?"

There was no hesitation in talking with this man. His purpose was clear. "From people like yourself, for a start. Your class."

"I see. People like your father?"

"Yes." Enjolras was grinding his teeth, and made himself stop.

"So, we spend our hard earned resources to help those who are not willing to try and make a living for themselves?"

"I am not asking you to hand them your purse, but to provide opportunities!" Enjolras held out his hand, upturned. "When you walk the streets of Paris, what do you truly see?"

"I see lazy vagrants," Francois said in a low, angry tone. "I see people not worth my time of day, nor my funds. And why? Ask yourself what they would do, Monsieur Enjolras. Your friend, the drunk. What does he with the money he acquires?"

He knew of Grantiare? Enjolras let his hand drop, and found he could say nothing. It was obvious this man had been watching them for some time, and the thought unnerved him. Were eyes settled on his friend at that moment? Were all of his friends in danger?

"You see, it is all well and good to speak for the equality of the people, but only if the people wish equality! If you give these vagrants the means to support themselves, they will fling it to the wind. They have no sense of responsibility. That is why they are among the decrepit!"

"I disagree."

"You would." Francois shook his head. "Your father told me you would be a hard case."

Enjolras stared, his face pinched. "My - father? What do you know of my father?"

"I know enough."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who agrees with him." Francois shook his head, and his voice softened. "Enjolras. Forget this silly game of yours. What we have shown you is nothing compared to what you will face if you continue with this farce."

At first the comment made no sense, then he stilled as the meaning came clear. "What - you have _shown_ me?" Enjolras raged.

Francois walked to him, standing nose to nose. "We were told to scare you, but not harm you. Not beyond reason. You are lucky, Enjolras, that you have a father who cares enough to do this for you. Should you fall into the hands of the wrong people, you would not be so fortunate. End this. Go back to class. Leave these people."

"You - my _father_ did this?" He couldn't fathom it. It wasn't possible. This, this wasn't possible.

"We are finished here, Enjolras," Francois said. "Your friends are on their way with fire and brimstone in their hearts. I have no wish to be murdered." He gave a slight smirk, then sobered. "Consider what I've said, and be gone. And know this. There are people who truly want your head. We are not those people. But they are watching you, and should they take you we can not stop them. Be wary. End this, or you may end up poisoned as Lamarque."

'I …" Enjolras felt as though the world was tilting from underneath him. "Lamarque, poisoned? It isn't the plague?" There had been plenty of rumors, but all signs had pointed to the plague. He himself had remained suspicious.

"It is easy to poison a man where then is much sickness in the water," Francois said. "And no, we are not responsible."

Enjolras closed his eyes. He had to take in this information. He had to give himself time to think, to process. His father… "I will ask you one more time, and I expect an answer. Who ARE you?"

"I sympathize. This must be a truly difficult position for you. I will have you escorted out. I've no desire to be torched in my bed by your loyalists." He waved his hand at the large man.

"No, wait! Monsieur!" Enjolras found himself being escorted none too gently from the dim room, down a corridor, and up many stairs.

He was flung through the front door of the warehouse where he tripped down the stairs and fell hard onto his abused knees. He looked up, but the man had already closed the door behind him as his name was distantly called by his friends.

He fell onto his side, and rested on the brick street.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Everything hurt. He wanted to lay there, but his friends were coming.

No weakness! he ordered himself. The voices were distant but coming fast, and he knew he had mere seconds to regain his composure. He winced upward as shadowy figures manifested into familiar shapes.

Then hands were all around him, grabbing at him. "Enjolras!"

He tried to ignore the chorus of, "my God!" and "are you well?" while allowing himself to be pulled to his feet and steadied. His friends looked concerned, angry, confused. Everything he felt within his chest, he saw reflected in their eyes. They took in his cuts and bruises, his torn shirt, the dried blood on the side of his head, and as one man all made a decision right there in front of him.

"NO! Wait, stop." He grabbed Courfeyrac by the arm, preventing him from taking the stairs. "Leave it!" The momentum from stopping his friend made him stumble. Courfeyrac caught him, his concern now burning holes in Enjolras' gut. Courfeyrac looked puzzled and angry but Enjolras stared him down, his lips pressed tight.

"Enjolras! What's happened?" Combeferre appeared at his elbow, his presence a sudden balm to his soul. Enjolras never understood how his friend managed to do it, but he felt calmer just knowing his friend was beside him.

A movement in the window of the building caught his attention. "Go. I'll explain later, just go!" His grip on Combeferre's arm tightened. He didn't want to admit it, but his head was spinning. Combeferre, ever attentive, sensed Enjolras' need and gripped his arm in return.

Grantaire pushed forward, stubborn as usual, torch in hand. "Are they in there? I thought I saw someone, by god, let me through!"

"Grantaire!" Enjolras warned, "calm yourself!" Combeferre clasped the leader's shoulder. Enjolras could feel the grip tremble, and he cupped his hand over his friend's. " Go! Move! All of you, go!"

He hated the way Grantaire's face fell. His friend was obviously ready to put himself at harm's way for Enjolras. It was quite the revelation, and not one he wanted to consider at the moment. His friends looked confused but obeyed without question, quickly picking up their stride to run back along the street, understanding that if they needed to flee, there was good reason.

Enjolras hung back. He still needed to get his bearings. His eyes closed then opened once more. _Shock_, he told himself. _I need…_

He was sharply turned to face Combeferre.

"You never answered me. Are you well?" Combeferre asked urgently his grip tightening to an almost unbearable degree. In the distance Courfeyrac paused with Grantaire, both waiting.

"Not here," Enjolras said in a low voice. "Please." It was all he could do not to become violently ill. His father….

He could see alarm in his friend's expression, but the subject was dropped. The young men hurried back through the streets, their every movement being watched.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Combeferre knew Enjolras wanted privacy. Back at the café he suffered through the looks and pats on the back and relieved faces, and managed to give a short, even pitiful speech thanking his friends for coming after him while reassuring them that this turn of events had not changed his heart, and should not change theirs. It was as hard to hear as it was for Enjolras to give, and the friends found themselves smiling in sympathy to hear him strain out the words, "thank you." He would thank every citizen on the street for their patronage and dedication with a bold eye, yet to give sincere thanks from his heart -Enjolras seemed truly flabbergasted.

Combeferre did not leave his friend's side. Marius stood in the corner, looking more grim than usual. Grantaire had his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders caved forwards, his expression for once unreadable. Joly kept shuffling his feet, looking from one face to another. Jehan was still, attentive, and morose. Feuilly had his arms folded. Courfeyrac practically stood at attention.

It occurred to Combeferre that he might have to make sure the amis did not take to the streets in pursuit of those who had taken their leader. Each man wore two faces, the one which showed relief that their leader was safe, and the one which revealed the fear in the realization that their leader was, in fact, a man who could be taken.

Enjolras was leaving. Combeferre pulled Courfeyrac aside, "Watch them tonight. Make sure they do nothing stupid," and walked out after Enjolras.

Combeferre followed him up the stairs to his small apartment, which annoyed his friend, but he was not turned away when Enjolras opened the door.

His room was clean and neat but for the books scattered on the single table beside the window, on the floor, on his bed. His friend merely scooped them aside and lay back on the thin mattress, draping one arm over his eyes. A shaky breath escaped him.

Combeferre sighed inwardly. "I asked before if you were injured and never received an answer."

"You've bandaged my hands already." A lone hand twitched at him.

"And until now your hands were the only thing available to me. I've not seen you since you were in that cell." He scraped a chair across the floor and sat beside the bed. The bandages were ragged. "Those hands should be re-dressed and I need to see to your head injury. And it is obvious you have others…"

"Oh for Heaven's Sake!" Enjolras practically growled. He sat up and whipped off the remains of his shirt, then threw his legs over the side of the bed and regarded Combferre evenly. "If I do this will you leave me be?"

Combeferre merely raised his eyebrows.

"My head pains me. My hands are stiff. I've been kicked in the back and kidneys. My stomach aches. My knees are no doubt bruised from that pipe which was wielded at them. I haven't looked, but they are stiff and sore. I feel I should be seventy! As it is I could hardly tote supplies for a barricade let alone climb one!" He scrubbed his hands through his hair, then looked up. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"It is a start." Combeferre said. "As stubborn as you are I will take what I can get. Now let me see." He was one of only a few men who could counter Enjolras' powerful glare, and he did so.

He endured Combeferre's poking and prodding, wincing slightly, flinching only once when a sore spot was thumbed. Combeferre nodded and motioned for Enjolras to pull up the legs to his pants. His knees were indeed bruised, swollen but intact. "So far as I can tell, nothing is broken. But you'll be good and sore. I have something which will help you sleep."

"No."

"Enjolras…"

"I need my head to remain steady, Combeferre!"

"You need rest! One night will not kill you!" he snapped, then pressed his lips together, wishing he had worded his desire differently. "Please. It will help. If you feel better having company after taking this drought I can stay."

Stay in case he had a reaction to the medication? Stay in case they were to come back for him? Either excuse was valid to Combeferre. He knew even if Enjolras told him no, he was not leaving. And he knew that Enjolras would not send him away. Something had shaken him deeply. He was not himself. Both men understood this.

Enjolras glanced around the sparse room. "I have nothing to offer. I'm not sure I even have food."

"I do. And I can make a pallet on the floor. Now be still and let me clean that head would properly."

"It is fine, it no longer bleeds."

"_Enjolras_!"

He didn't look pleased, but he nodded.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Combeferre was back with food and his own blankets. He found Enjolras sitting at his desk, a book held in one bandaged hand, reading by candlelight. He had changed into clean clothes. A small patch of white glowed on the side of his head, the gauze showing no signs of further bleeding.

Combeferre set bread on the table, then pulled the chair which had remained beside the bed back to the table and across from Enjolras. He smiled as the book was set down, and the food eyed with interest.

"Stale bread and water for two days, and nothing to come home to! Enjolras, you need to find yourself a woman."

"So Grantaire tells me," Enjolras said. "But you have none and yet you still manage to procure," Enjolras opened the bundle Combeferre set before him, "cheeses, fresh bread which thankfully is not fit to build houses, and apples." He grunted his approval at the latter and picked up an apple.

Combeferre tore off a hunk of bread. "Enjolras, has your stipend run out?"

"I am no longer accepting funds from my father." He crunched into the fruit.

Combeferre could only blink. "Are you mad?"

"Probably." Chewed.

"What are you living on?"

Enjolras gestured, and said nothing.

"Why?"

"Because people live like this, Combeferre! And I need to know."

"You - you mean to tell me you are choosing to starve so you can see what the lower class is going through?"

Enjolras gave him an annoyed look. "Nothing so dramatic. But it is difficult to relate to their plight if I continue to go home to plates of roast beef."

"Enjolras," Combeferre breathed in amazement. "That's very noble. But very insane."

"Combeferre, I have to tell you this, but you can not let it leave this room. Do you understand?"

"Yes?"

His eyes grew dark, and Enjolras looked down. His fingers were nervous, tossing the apple from one hand to the other. Combeferre waited patiently.

"It is no secret that my father does not approve of my actions. He has made that abundantly clear, yet he still sees fit to fund my schooling and provide me with a place to stay." His eyes roamed the room. "He even wanted to bring my old things over, but I would not allow it. I wanted a fresh start.

"For three years I have studied political sciences and law. But what good is it to sit in a room away from what is really going on? There," he jabbed a finger at the window, "is where things happen. A court room is merely a place to discuss matters, heatedly of course, much like our own ABC, but it is still a discussion, and then a decision is made, and they discuss another situation."

"It sounds…"

"Boring, Combeferre! It is the most insanely boring, monotonous thing you can ever picture in your head!"

His pleading tone caught Combeferre by surprised, and he laughed.

"I thought about it while in jail, Combeferre. It truly frightened me. The magistrates coming in and out. All pompous, all…" he shook his head. "I should make it a point to bring back the wig."

Combeferre laughed loudly, but it was a sobering thought. The only way he could picture Enjolras was full of fire out in the open, with the whole world at his feet.

Enjolras had been accused of single-mindedness many times. Of being incapable of caring for his fellow man, that his higher purpose was all about the "cause". The reason was this: even through Enjolras was a very impassioned speaker, he was also a bit of a recluse. He could talk to the crowds, but he did not like them. Even at the café filled to the brim with those he considered his closest friends, he would stand in the corner when the situation became overwhelming. But his inner drive, his inner flame which everyone saw within him, would consume him and pull him from the dark corners he would probably languish in otherwise. Combeferre had often wondered dedication to the cause kept his friend sane. The morose moods in which Enjolras would occasionally find himself was frightening to Combeferre.

Enjolras picked up a book and studied the spine. "Out here I can use my hands. I'm not shouted down by those who do not agree with me, I'm not made to sit down and let others make the decision. Out here, I make my own decisions. I am master of my own fate." He tossed the book onto the table with a thump and slowly crossed his arms, his face turning down into a scowl. He sat silent.

Combeferre noticed the change, and it was more than Enjolras sinking into a brown study. He knew better than to press his friend. "Did you hear from the Society while in jail?"

"Once."

"Has anything changed?"

"What is there to change? We wait." His voice had deepened. He was no longer in a mood to talk.

Combeferre nodded once. "These people who took you…"

"Are of no consequence. I am tired, Combeferre. And I must speak tomorrow."

"That concerns me."

His eyebrows raised, challenging.

"Perhaps if someone else were to speak?"

"They would become a target," he responded smoothly. "I'll not have it. I've brought this upon myself. I ask enough of these men, I'll not put them in harm's way any more than I must. I do what I do for the people. I ask no one to lay down their lives for this."

"But you are, Enjolras! And they will do it. They will do it for you."

Enjolras fell silent. "You have little faith in our plans."

"You said yourself we will be outflanked and outgunned."

"If the people do not rise, then yes. That is the outcome exact."

"We seem to be leaving a lot to chance," Combeferre said slowly.

Enjolras looked to his small window. "I understand, Combeferre. I honestly do," he said in a soft voice. "Indeed, the thought plagues me day and night. But I am committed. I do not know anything else. It is a thought that tears at me when I see the people on the street. It is a banner I have taken that I may not set aside. It is gnawing at my soul! What can I do but take a stand?"

"You mentioned a barricade before. What will happen if you build that barricade, and fall at it?" Combeferre leaned forward urgently. "Grantaire is correct in his fear. So much more may be done, if only you are here to do it!"

"Dammit, the people must rise! Immediate action!" Enjolras leaned forward and grabbed Combeferre's hand. "If we waste this opportunity I may as well resign myself to a life of useless servitude in the courtroom. I will be no better than those men whose only concern about the affairs of the people is the number of cases they must listen to before their next tea break. I'll not do it!" He rose in frustration, his back turned. "Combeferre, you are my closest and dearest friend. You know this. But you will either fight with me, or take your leave. I'll not fault you if you rise right now, because I'll not see harm come to you. I'll not see harm come to anyone of the amis should they choose not to take it upon themselves. This is voluntary, and every volunteer will know precisely what it involved, and what the risk will be. And what is the ultimate risk? Death. If we build this barricade we may very well die at the barricade. I am prepared."

Combeferre had no doubt of it. He only wondered why Enjolras was so adamant. He swallowed hard, and rose. Enjolras heard the scrape of the chair and turned to find his arm instantly clasped in a firm grip. "How many have you heard?"

"Twenty-five thousand strong throughout the streets of Paris."

"Then we better pray we can defeat an army," Combeferre said, "and God help us all."

**TBC**... :)


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras was speaking to the crowd the next day, and to his credit, they looked on with anticipation. Several men were yelling out, not against Enjolras, but with him. Those who had been supportive in the past were now more vocal as tensions continued to rise through the city. It was predicted that General Lamarque would survive only a few days more. People were once hidden, but now they were talking in doorways, on street corners, or passing meaningful looks on the street. Combeferre was noticing it more and more, and it stuck him that perhaps the Society was not on a fool's errand after all, and that he should have a little more faith in his friend.

His friend was fiery in his element. His fist was clenched, his body loose, his words soaring. He had the throng of people in the palm of his hand. Even the children were paying attention, instinctively caught up in the energy of a pending event, cheering even though many had no idea what they were cheering for. Young Gavroche was there, schooling his friends as much as he could, sticking up for the mites of the streets. The enthusiastic small fist would strike the air, "Vive la France!" and Joly would quickly pull him down once more.

"This is a good turn of events." Grantaire said, appearing at Combeferre's elbow. He winced and put his hand to his head.

Combeferre glanced at him with a smile, then turned again. "Grantaire?"

"I'm fine." Grantaire swallowed thickly.

Combeferre leaned on his side against the brick wall, shaking his head. "You are as bad as he is. How long have you been ill?"

Grantaire shrugged. "A few days?"

"Headache?"

Grantaire tucked his hands beneath his arms as though he were cold. "No."

"You are not a good liar."

"I never claimed to be." He closed in.

Combeferre stared. "Are you cold? It is a furnace out here!"

"Oh, leave me be! Look to him, he is the one who bears the attention, not I."

"As I said, you are a poor liar." But Combeferre was concerned. "Grantaire, when was the last time you had a drink? Truly?"

"Fine! I had several when Enolras disappeared. I had another when he was returned to us."

"And today?"

"Someone has to watch his back!"

"You've said that before!"

"And I had a few drinks! But I am not drunk now. I haven't had anything in over a day and a half. I wish I did…oh god…." Grantaire turned and placed his hand against the wall, slumping. "It is worse than last time…"

"Grantaire!" Combeferre quickly braced him, looking around for Marius. "Easy, easy. Let's get you out of here."

"I can stand."

"Perhaps, but not for long," Combeferre muttered, adjusting his grip, his eyes darting through the crowd.

"I'm not leaving him! Why do you think I suffer this outrage?"

"He doesn't need your imminent collapse as a distraction!" Combeferre forced the young man's chin around. "Look at me. You are on the right path. Give it another day with no drink at all and then you will see fit to be at his side."

Grantaire groaned. "Do not jest. I am fit for nothing more than a wooden box."

"Nonsense. Marius! Good, there you are. Watch this crowd and stay close to Enjolras. Keep Feuilly with you. Grantaire is ill."

Marius leaned in to Combeferre's ear. "Drunk again?"

Combeferre grunted as he caught Grantaire's slumping form. "Ironically, his body is suffering from the strain of normality, and has to adjust."

"Do not dare use the word 'normal' in my hearing." Grantiare swallowed hard. "I die. It is worth this? Is _he_ worth this?"

Grantaire did look rather green. Marius took a step back in horror, but Combeferre managed to quickly steer the poor man around the corner before he disgraced himself.

After several minutes Grantaire slid back against the rough wall. "I am useless."

"Give it a day. You'll feel better than you ever have."

"That is questionable. But as Christ rose, so shall I." Grantaire gestured with his hands, and was lifted by the elbows.

Maruis wrinkled his nose. "Oh, my. I preferred you smelling of spirits." He released his grip as Grantaire heaved violently, but was not ill.

"Get me out of here," the sick man mumbled, and Combeferre did as he was told.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x

Combeferre glanced back at the sleeping man as he opened his door. He turned and walked right into Enjolras.

"Enjol…my god!" Combeferre gasped and slumped against the door, stumbling back as it swung inward.

"Easy!" Enjolras quickly grabbed him to keep him from falling back. "I came to see how he fares."

Combeferre was breathing heavily from his fright, and glanced behind him. "Morbid," he said quietly, taking Enjolras by the arm and pulling him into the corridor while closing his apartment door. "He's been sick constantly. I had to bring him here to guarantee he wouldn't drink the café dry in retaliation." He braced his hand against the wall, still regaining his breath.

Enjolras looked amused at Combeferre's state. "I am sorry."

"Never mind."

"Maruis said you escorted him away. What ails him?"

"Lack of spirits." Combeferre gave a sad smile.

"_Lack_ of…" Enjolras thought, then his eyebrows rose. "He's completely stopped drinking?"

"All for the love of country."

"That's a lie."

"All for the love of Enjolras, then." At the man's frown, he sighed. "Let's go outside. I've given him a sleeping drought, I do not believe he has anything left to vacate. He'll be fine on the morrow. But we should talk."

They walked the streets of Paris, enjoying the sun. Combeferre noticed Enjolras turning his face upwards more than once. He seemed more calm than usual. "Tell me," he said after they'd walked for a while in silence. "Upon what quest has Grantaire set himself? I've tried to dissuade him from the drink a thousand times, what's changed in him?"

"He wants to see you live," Combferre said bluntly. "He was panicked when you were taken, Enjolras. We all were. But he was struck the hardest. He tried forgoing the drink then, and now he has succeeded."

"How does a lack of drink make him ill?"

"Drink was all he had. His body craves it. At the same time it rids itself of it."

"A devilish way to put off a devilish brew." Enjolras puzzled over this. "And how would this help me to live?"

"He thinks to protect you. Do not laugh, Enjolras! He is very serious, and I think it would be good for him to do so. He is very able when he is sober."

"When has he been sober?"

"I've known him longer, remember? I have seen it. He hasn't always been a drunkard." Combeferre stopped Enjolras. "Like it or not, you are his savior. He both worships and curses the ground you walk on. He loves you, and I think he hates himself for it."

Enjolras shook his head sadly. "I am not worthy of this…insane devotion."

"I've told you before that every man here will put his life on the line for you. You know this. They do this because they believe in the cause, and in your word. Why should Grantaire be any different?"

"No, not for me!" Enjolras snapped. "For the nation! For their…"

"Freedom, yes, I know!" Combeferre caught Enjolras by the arms. "Stop, I do not mean to belittle you! But you have to listen! They don't understand what's coming, Enjolras! They've never seen the storm. But I think you have. Tell me, can you truly prepare them?"

Enjolras sighed and pulled away. He walked a few paces, his back turned, and stopped. The sun gleamed off of his white shirt, and for a moment he did indeed look like an angel. Combeferre nearly caught his breath. But when the voice spoke, it was dark.

"It was my father, Combeferre. He hired the men to take me from my cell. He wanted to frighten me from the cause."

Combeferre was speechless.

Enjolras made a fist, still not turning but speaking over his shoulder. "The bastard visited me while I was in jail, and said nothing. Instead he had me taken. This was how he spoke. Not only was I a child, I was a child flattened by his invisible hand. He did not have the courage to speak to my face."

He couldn't wrap his mind around that. Granted he did not know Enjolras's father, had never seen him and hardly heard Enjolras speak of him. But it remained…"No. Not your own father. He would not."

Enjolras exhaled harshly in a breath which sounded almost like a laugh of disbelief.

Combeferre stood beside his friend and studied his expression. Enjolras did not look angry. He looked sad. Incredibly sad. "I am sorry. I don't know what to say to that."

Enjolras looked up. "What is there to be said?"

"We should let Grantaire pay him a visit."

This time Enjolras laughed loudly. "Do not tempt me!" He chuckled for a few moments as they resumed their walk. "The man my father hired, he did say something. He said there were others who would hamper the cause."

"So we've seen. It landed you in jail in the first place." And it had been pulling at his mind ever since.

"Oh, there are other societies about, other alliances, others who think they know the better way," he waved his sentence away impatiently, "but these people, they are bound to us. They wish to silence _us_, specifically. That means we are on the right path. Something about us frightens them. Combeferre," he paused and took his friend's arm, "I would know who these people are."

"How?"

Enjolras considered, then tapped Combefere's chest with his forefinger. "We'll have someone rise against us in public and see if they can attract the attention of these particulars. And I know someone who would be perfect for the part."

Combeferre waited, then shook his head as he realized. "No. Enjolras, he would never do it! And he is ill!"

"Not for long, you said yourself he would be fine. He confronts me nightly in the café. And if he wants to _protect_ me, he will do this."

Combeferre noted the word "protect" was muttered in a wry tone, and as such held out little hope for poor Grantaire.

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Grantaire hated it.

They had been sitting in the front of the café when Combeferre broke the news. Grantaire had been back on his feet for a day, and this was not how he wanted to spend it. He had looked on in astonishment as Enjolras explained what was needed of him. His eyes drifted to the bottles which were disturbingly out of his reach. If ever he needed a drink, it was at that moment.

Now he was steeling himself to confront the only man he had ever bothered to admire.

Oh, it wasn't the confrontation which bothered him. That, he would engage in with fervor. What worried him would be the restraint needed should these…others…seek him out. His part was to open the door for these others who would harm Enjolras.

It was deplorable.

It took that thought to get him out on the streets, bracing himself, evaluating every face which happened to turn his way. Enjolras had made it plain that Grantaire's mission was for the cause, as was everything. It had been Combeferre who had run after him after Grantaire refused to participate and stormed out. He referred to the charge as a personal favor. His eyes spoke what his lips did not, and Grantaire understood in a heartbeat that the way these men would bring down the movement was through Enjolras.

That simply was not acceptable.

And so his god was standing on high, haloed by the sun, his face flushed with passion, his hands and gestures expressive, and his audience was completely taken in. Enjolras was in his element, and it would take quite the performance from Grantaire to match it.

Fortunately, he had plenty of experience on that front. He hitched up his pants and launched in with no reserve.

His first remarks were casual sarcasm, pitched so only those around him could hear. He was very careful; although in truth he wasn't in support of the foolery of Enjolras and his protest, the last thing he wanted to do was undermine his efforts. Then he decided, why not? From that moment not only did he equal Enjolras in his passion but in his steady stream of words which contrasted, rivaled, and sometimes bested that of his friend. And for a moment, one moment which made his heart soar, Enjolras looked impressed.

He was at the foot of the platform, yelling, red-faced, refusing to bend underneath the intense stare aimed his way. And suddenly everything was coming forwards, tumbling from his lips in a tumultuous cascade; their lack of rationale, their need to earn a place in history because face it, this cesspool did well to remember where they put their bags! They would be crushed underfoot and for what? To swing a gun and be a man? Did they really think a rebellion would cease the political machine Paris had become? Even without the people's man, did they really think these cowards would rise? That got a few calls and whistles of disdain, which would no doubt please Enjolras, but to Grantaire's surprise the people were listening to him. They were listening to him! He leapt onto the platform, waving aside his startled friend who watched with his arms folded. And he continued to speak, bemoaning the lives which would be thrown away for what would amount to a useless cause, for what would happen afterward? Would one day change everything?

"Christ died in one day," Enjolras said in his low tone.

"My friend," Grantaire said to him, "you are Apollo. You are not Christ." His comment earned confused looks.

But he jumped down to applause and pats on the back. He steeled himself. He dared not look back, knowing a certain darkened face was watching his every move. Perhaps he had done his job too well. That was fine by him! Enjolras deserved every jolt Grantaire gave him on that platform, the self-serving, pompous little….

Grantaire was thoroughly disgusted with himself. He marched into the café and eyed the bottles behind the counter, only to find his arm caught and his body shoved against the wall.

"What were you _thinking_?" Joly hissed in his face.

"Oh, get off," Grantaire flung himself away. "I was doing what was required of me. You think that was easy?"

"Yes! I do! You've just destroyed everything we've worked for!"

"You've destroyed everything we've worked for," Grantaire shot back in an insulting, whiny voice. "What have you done? Tell me! So you'll have to work harder. You'll learn to live with it." He instantly felt the impact of a fist against his jaw. He palmed it, then pulled back and punched Joly square in the mouth, sending him back over a table.

"Grantaire!" Combeferre had entered and pulled him back, then turned him and shoved him towards the door. "Go. Get by yourself. You can't be seen here."

"Heaven forbid I should be in the company of your graces!" Grantaire yelled. "I was doing you a favor!"

"Out!" Combeferre yelled, and Grantaire took his leave.

None of these actions went unnoticed.

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"Hey! You there!"

Grantaire turned to see a man about his age running up to him. What, now? Couldn't this wait? In the mood he was in, he was ready to send them all to the devil. Damn this ridiculous ploy, "Yes? What do you want?"

The man jerked his thumb behind him. "I saw you. You took that kid right down. Good man."

"Yes. Uhh…thank you."

"You're good at it."

More than you well know. "…I don't understand." Grantaire turned to be on his way.

"Your speech! What else?" The man was irritated. "Don't tell me you've already forgotten, you've just left there!"

"I was only doing what any good citizen would do. The last thing we need is to become a police state due to the unruliness of the…"

"Shh!" The man looked around quickly, then approached him and leaned in close. "The point is, you think he's wrong."

"Pfft."

"You do! You said so yourself!"

"I refuse to take a side in the matter."

"However…"

"However my passion got the better of me, that is all. Good day to you."

"But you know that man. I've seen you speak to him before."

Grantaire stopped, and frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I've attended several talks. I've seen the two of you together."

Was that so? What else did he know?

"And despite that you rose against him before that crowd. That is passion indeed."

Grantaire took two steps forward, leveling his gaze. "Who are you?"

The man pulled out a small card from an inner pocket. "I represent the People. We have a better," he paused, "a better _idea_, one that these young radicals need to consider."

Grantaire took the card without looking at it. "Young radicals?"

The man took on a rational tone. "Come, they will do nothing more than line the streets with their own blood! You know this. They are suicidal. If they truly wish to die we can appease them and then get on with our own cause. A more _civil_ cause."

_If they truly wish to die we can appease them_. The man's delicate emphasis on his words did not escape Grantaire's notice. "Which is?"

The man smirked and pointed to the card. "Show up, and see for yourself."

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General Lamarque was gone. Gavroche had delivered the news, which lit a fire in the bellies of the men. Enjolras felt his blood surging. The plans were laid out furiously as he recognized an ideal opportunity. The people were already on the streets talking, the workers looking angry, the mothers clutching their children. The Society had been meeting and brewing in the back rooms of wine shops and in the talk of the workers on the streets for several months, and now that talk was wide open.

The cholera had done it's evil deed throughout the city, and had abated somewhat. The grave-diggers were well paid, and the back streets were still heavy with carriages toting wooden coffins. The main streets would be cleared for the funeral procession of the general. The lesser people would have to rot in their homes for the afternoon.

Enjolras drummed his fingers on the small table, having ushered everyone out so he could tend to his own thoughts. He sipped his coffee without tasting it. His eyes were distant, looking forward to what was certain to be a public funeral, picturing the throngs of people lining the streets as they watched their only friend in government, their last chance at a clear voice, being driven away to his burial. They would be emotional. They would be angry.

They would be ripe for the picking.

He sipped his coffee.

They would be heard that day, by God they would, with a cry so loud as to empty _La_ _Seine_.

He had verbal messages delivered to the other Society factions. We must meet. Now. Only us. It was intended for the other leaders, the ones who would organize the insurrection. They would take to the streets in force on the day of the funeral. Use the power of the people.

They would need more weapons.

His mind raced. He'd already come up with the idea of a barricade, knowing the worsening condition of Lamarque, and originally he'd planned to stop the funeral in its tracks. Perhaps that was foolhardy. He'd heard varying numbers, from five thousand to twenty-four thousand, all rallying around the Society and it's smaller branches. He doubted those numbers. That they would raise a cry there was no doubt. But they needed an army to match an army, and there was no way that many would come to the Paris center for a protest.

Until now. The funeral itself would play into his hands.

He pulled at his lip, and thought some more.

"Enjolras?"

The voice was gentle. His eyebrows raised as he looked behind him to see Joly standing in the door. "Yes?"

"All messages are delivered." Joly walked in, running his hand through his curly hair, his face flustered. "I - uh." He fidgeted.

"Say what's on your mind." Enjolras fought his impatience. Joly looked disconcerted, and it bothered him.

"It is going to happen, isn't it?" Joly asked.

Fear. That was what Enjolras saw in the boy's eyes. "It is."

Joly nodded.

Enjolras studied him. His expression was downcast, his hand clenched into his pockets. The reality of the situation had struck him hard. He felt a rush of sympathy for the boy, but it was something he could not afford. Not now. He sighed and turned in his chair, propping his elbow on the back, and regarded the student. "You know I require this of no-one. It is purely voluntary. You can help in many other ways."

"I'll be there for you. I'll be by your side."

"Joly…"

"No, it's what I wanted to tell you." He suddenly looked so young, his fair hair damp from the heat, his eyes large. "I'll stand by you."

Enjolras felt his eyes narrow. "Why are you saying this now?"

"I think it makes me feel better." Joly gave a slight smile.

Enjolras smiled back. "Well, if it makes you feel better…"

"I just…"

Enjolras raised his hand to stop him. "What we are about to undertake is massive. I know. But with the people behind us, we will succeed. Do you hear me? You see this small group, and you fear. Were it just this group I would fear as well." He leaned forward. "Joly, we are talking about the heart beating within Paris itself. The people are that heart, and they have suffered a grievous wound. You will see for yourself, in two days time that wound will be exposed and the city will rise with a roar. You will not be alone. You will have thousands at your side. Thousands, Joly! Think of it!"

Joly raised his head and looked Enjolras in the eye, and visibly changed. He pulled his shoulders back, and seemed more confident.

"Now go on. Rest. I'll have word tomorrow evening."

Joly nodded. He smiled a wonderful, youthful grin and retreated, closing the door behind him.

Enjolras smiled down at the table. Then his face formed a mask of seriousness as he truly weighed the task before them. All he could do now was wait for a response from the others.

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Grantaire paused, squared his shoulders, then knocked on the heavy door. It opened to reveal a burly man, the tallest he'd ever seen, and he felt his eyes widen. He should have had a drink. It was much easier to face monsters with warmth in your belly.

He flicked out the small handmade card. The large man stepped aside, his dark eyes locked with Grantaire's.

The room was dim, but otherwise reminded Grantaire greatly of the meetings at the café. Young men were gathered around a table. He saw the one who had handed him the card, and was waved forward. "Gentlemen! May I present our orator!" He clapped as the others turned and regarded him.

Grantaire struck a nonchalant pose. "This is it?"

"We have more in number than what you see."

_That is what worries me. _"I assume you've heard the news."

"Of course." The man walked around the table. His hair was nearly the color of flame. Grantaire had never seen a shade like it. With hand extended, he welcomed Grantaire to their table. "I am Moliere. This is Langley, Andre, Leroux, Remi, and Julien." He pointed to the perimeter of the room, where more stood. "Dax, Jourdan, Platt, Vallis."

"I'm terrible with names," Grantiare said, after giving them his own name as "Roi".

"You will remember, or not," Moliere shrugged. "I am suited either way, though you might want to at least attempt to commit them to memory should you need to call out in distress." Moliere winked.

"You anticipate distress?"

Moliere flattened his palms on the table and faced him like a red wolf. "We expect nothing less."

Grantaire smirked. "You are a cheerful bunch, aren't you?" He noticed no one else was talking or moving. He felt unsettled.

"How well do you know Enjolras? What are his motives, his plan of action?"

"What?" He had expected this line of questioning, but not directly upon entering a room. "No one really knows the man but himself. He is an enigma, even among friends."

"And are you a friend?" Moliere asked.

"I know him. He despises me."

"But you do not despise him."

"He has certain endearing qualities, many of which you are aware or you would disregard him."

"Indeed." Moliere smiled. "My point, is you spoke well against him. Would you do so again?"

"It is a habit of mine."

Moliere walked around the table, his grey eyes not leaving Grantaire's. "Would you silence him?"

Grantaire turned his head, ever so slightly, his eyes still fixed to Moliere's but noticing movement in the corner. "I don't take your meaning, sir."

"Sir." Moliere smiled. "I like that. Nice and proper." He stood nose to nose. "News of this death will have the people in an uproar. The Society would be foolish not to make their move."

"And if I may ask, what are your stakes in this?"

"Merely the good of the people!"

"Bullshit. Look at you. You are as upper crust as I've ever seen. Your suit would pay the wages of a dozen factory workers and has not a rent in it. You are boys playing at this. You've seen a leader, and now you think you can be one. Are you striving to take his place?"

"This rebellion, as it were, will not stand. We'll not allow it."

"How do you propose to stop it?"

"When desperate times arise…"

"Are you desperate? You look well to me. Let me take a guess, then. You'll lose your funding should the government collapse under the weight of democracy, and we can not have that!" Grantaire laughed. "You all amaze me, you truly do! Enjolras believes he can save the world, and you are frightened he will!" He spread his arms wide. "This is not the revolution! When will you understand that what you do here will not matter! It is too small! You will be trodden upon and forgotten in history, and for what?" He flung his hand. "Devil take it. You are no better than he is. I was hoping to come here to find someone with wits and quite possibly a brain in their head. I am disappointed." He scoffed, and made for the door.

"We serve the government. They know what is going on, more so than you think."

"Good for the bloody government. Let me out."

"They will crush this before it starts!"

"Then let them. I'm neither a supporter nor opposed. I simply do not care."

"You would have your friends die?"

Grantaire turned. "You want me to silence Enjolras, then four breaths later ask if I wish my friends to die? You are a mad man. I said to let me out."

Moliere nodded. "You have shown your colors, then. I know you will go back to the café, and you will tell them of what had transpired. Quite possibly this was the plan all along. Fine. Tell them this. If they attempt a rebellion of any sort, if they so much as plan, we will take steps to insure it will not come to be. If that means taking Enjolras, we only have the will of the government to support us."

"Enjolras was arrested once. Why not arrest him again, if it is the will of the government?" He studied Moliere, then barked out a laugh. "Unbelievable. You had me fooled. You do not represent the government. You represent your own fear of what would happen should the government fall. I'm sorry, is the possibility of living in the streets so unappealing to you? You sicken me. At least Enjolras has a decent vision, faulty though it may be. You, however, just wish to save your collective, expensive asses."

"Keep in mind what happened to your leader on that platform, and know it would hardly classify as a warning," Moliere said in a low voice. "We will do much worse. Leroux, please escort Monsieur Roi from this place. And believe that we will be watching, and waiting. I am sure we will see you again." Moliere turned away, as did the other men. "Oh, Leroux? Send their leader Enjolras a message, would you?" He turned back to stare at Grantaire, his eyes dark.

Grantaire felt his stomach churn. This did not look good at all.

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**Uh-oh! Looks like trouble! Please leave a review, and pardon any errors, I'm flying solo on this one. Thank you!**

**TBC...**


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